


Writers Block

by Handsome_Wounded_Duck



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, How Do I Tag, M/M, One Shot Collection, Organs, Panic Attacks, Writer's Block, but nothing too bad about them, no thoughts head empty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handsome_Wounded_Duck/pseuds/Handsome_Wounded_Duck
Summary: If I'm really struggling to write, I'm using this as a free-flow space to get myself back into the groove. Maybe if I like some stuff I put here, I'll turn that into it's own work. Idk.This collection of stories features:- My OCs (Grim, Navy) being themselves.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character





	Writers Block

**Author's Note:**

> Grim, the Author and Navy are all original characters of mine. They are intended to be featured in a book one day if I can get off my arse and write it.
> 
> 'The Author' is a voice in Grim's head that he believes to be the creator of the fictional story that he is in (yes, Grim is a fourth wall breaking character akin to Deadpool). The Author is mentioned here, but does not speak. Just wanted to explain that to reduce the confusion a little bit more.

He sits upon the bronze wooden floor, legs crossed, silver eyes staring down at a blank page. Empty. White. Nothing. So painfully white and plain...

Idly, Grim wonders if opening his skull would help. What if he grabbed a scalpel? Made a neat little line across his forehead and just went... shhhwup. Boom. There's the brain! Now let's spill it's contents upon the blank page and see what comes out.

It would be like splatters of ink, wouldn't it? An artist dropping their palette board and watching as the colours splat out upon their canvas. An explosion of violets and reds and blues. Hmm... are those the right colours to imagine in this situation?

Brains are pink, right? Pink and mushy, simple and squishy. If you splatted one down upon a piece of paper, could you make art out of it? Like painting with a sponge, only the sponge is your brain and the reds and whites it generates are not pretty water colours you brought from that fancy art store once because you thought the packaging looked kinda neat.

No... no, he's gotten way off track. Raising up his palms, Grim bangs them semi-gently against the sides of his head; goodbye, images of brains and scalpels! Begone! Now, it's just him and that blank page again... and the discarded pen beside it, of course.

Oh, pens! Aren't they fancy? You can create a whole world just by scribbling away with them! Open up a new dimension, cast down your unique creations upon it - watch them flock and wander and stumble through the paths you weave for them.

Then again... pens can also be deadly. Not all new dimensions are made equal. Some creators are kind and gentle to their creations - some are... cruel.

_"Aren't they, Author?"_ Grim thinks, knowing that he's not the only one listening to his inner thoughts. But of course, the Author doesn't reply. It's just Grim... and the blank page... and the deadly pen...

That pen... it's staring at him. It's menacing in it's subtly, in it's seeming lack of intentions. It's waiting patiently, like an eager dog seeking it's master after a tedious day, longing to be interacted with. But should Grim really pick up that pen? Does he deserve to have the responsibility of a whole new world within his hands?

His hands... oh, his hands! Silver eyes stare down at his wrinkled palms, the way the pads of his fingers are worn down after years of use and abuse. There's a small dipped indent on his left middle finger where his pen would normally rest, his pale hands permanently stained with the marks of a writer.

You can learn a lot about someone through their hands - seriously, you can! Calloused and rough? Clearly, they're a hard worker. Defined and bruised knuckles? Probably a fighter. Soft, smooth and silky? Hopefully happy and carefree. Mangled?

...Mangled...

_Wait, where did that hand come from?_

There's a hand on the paper on the floor, but it's not Grim's own. It seeps with ink, more of a shadow than anything three dimensional, but lurking over the blank page regardless. Menacing. Extending from the tip of the pen upon the floor.

Some of this hand's ink drips, hanging down in liquid strings, a couple of drops spilling and splashing upon the blank page. "Hey!" Grim cries out, tired eyes narrowing into a glare. That was his canvas, not the hand's! And now it's got it all dirty, dammit...

Shifting, the hand almost seems to turn towards the white-haired man, as if it somehow heard Grim's voice. It slinks upwards, slow and rather terrifying, ink still dripping as it moves until it pauses, palm facing Grim as it's fingers remain glued together. Ink drip, drip, drips onto the white paper, starting to cover it in a veil of black as the centre of the hand's palm suddenly bursts outwards. The burst causes ink to splatter upon the previously grey jeans of Grim, the man scrambling backwards with a wrinkled nose to get away from the liquid.

And then he sees it. In the centre of the inky hand, an eye. Bulging out, staring at Grim. Fixated.

_Blink... blink... blink..._

The writer starts to sweat, one of his own hands running through his white hair out of stress. He goes to pull it down his face, not thinking anything of it... until he pulls his hand away and finds his palm stained with murky ink.

Silver eyes widen in horror, hands flying up to the top of his face. His forehead... his forehead is bleeding! No, not bleeding... spilling ink. It's seeping from between his fingers from a horizontal incision, running down the backs of his hands, some of it starting to drip down in front of his eyes...

Oh _God_ no!

His breathing picks up. Oh God oh God oh God, what is this? Sure, he's seen things before - sure, he's been aware of the inky silhouettes that lurk in the corners of his eyes. But this? Something so... intrusive? So alien, so abrupt, so all consuming? Is this one of the Author's tricks? No, no, they're just a voice! They don't usually affect the real world like this! They usually manipulate reality in the background, not so forcefully and horrifically.

It can't be the Author, can it? No... no... _But then what is it?_

Oh God, the ink's starting to get in his eyes! Grim opens his mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a gurgle and more ink, spilling faster and faster now. His chest is heaving, his wrinkled worn hands are gripping his hair, the once blank page has gone from white to black as the eye-hand dissolves and sinks into it.

And that pen is still sitting there. Untouched, unnerved. He could swear he hears it laughing now, mocking him, shiny sharp fangs glinting within the rapidly growing darkness of the room...

It's the pen! It's the pen's fault! He hates it he hates it he hates it he--

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

_Smack!_ The hurled pen crashes into the farthest pale blue wall of the room, exploding upon impact from the sheer force. At the same time, the door to the room swings open, a silhouette amongst it's frame.

"Grim?" the voice is startled, but soft. Calming. An eye amongst the storm. The silhouette moves forward, and suddenly Grim is afraid again. What if the ink gets this person too? Wraps around them and claims them, taints their tanned skin and destroys the canvas of their pretty face?

"Oh, Grim..." the calm voice speaks again. Is it even real? Maybe it's just another creation from the pen? Some cruel glimpse of hope amongst the ink that Grim's still choking on, that seems to spill from his own insides and back out.

"Breathe," calm voice again, "Please, breathe with me, okay? Come on. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two... Come on, Grim, please."

Huh? Breathe? Mr calm voice, can you not see that Grim is currently suffocating on tar? Well, no, not tar, but it certainly could be tar. The ink is thick and vicious and flooding through his lungs, filling up his heart. He can't even see the white paper anymore. There's so much black. He-

There! In front of him. A hand: soft, smooth and silky. Gentle and extended towards him, palm up and welcoming, a perfect hand if it weren't for the tiny scratches from critters that distinguish it as it's own. Grim would recognise such a hand in a heartbeat, even if that heart is being strangled by liquid darkness.

"Na... Nav..." his voice is wobbly to his ears, tongue struggling to work right, the ink still dribbling from his cracked, heaving lips, "Na... vy...?"

"Yes, it's me," calm voice explains, "I'm here. I'm here, and you're safe. I promise, you're safe."

Hand... can he hold it? Can he hold Navy's hand? One of Grim's wrinkled and worn hands timidly raises upwards, trembling as it goes, slowly sliding into Navy's own...

_Breathe..._

The ink pauses in it's flow.

_In... One..._

Grim gingerly laces his bumpy, shaky fingers with Navy's smooth, still ones.

_Two... Three..._

Slowly, the blackness starts evaporating, ink beginning to fade away.

_Out... One..._

With no more ink in his eyes, Grim starts to notice a reassuring curl to Navy's nervous lips.

_Two... Three..._

His chest no longer feels heavy, his heart and lungs emptied of whatever sickness had consumed them.

Grim isn't sure when he and Navy started hugging, but with his breathing back to normal, he finds himself in the Australian's arms. He sinks into the much taller man, one hand clinging rather desperately to the back of his cyan shirt, the other still lacing fingers with Navy.

"Hey..." the calm voice of his partner gently greets.

"...Hi..." Grim replies, not at all surprised to hear that his words are a little hoarse (thanks to his currently raw and abused throat from his earlier rapid breaths).

With a small comforting smile, the Australian queries: "Do... do yah mind if I ask what happened?"

The white-head pauses at that, just blinking silently at first, unsure of how to respond. _Blink... blink... blink..._ Silver eyes skim towards the floor where he had been sat, locating the spot when they find the blank page. Only, it is now a screwed up page, apparently crumpled, ripped and destroyed amongst the chaos. And the pen? It's scattered in shattered parts upon the floor, it's black shards lost amongst the bronze.

Grim registers these details, sure, but he's mainly focused on one thing in particular. Upon the pale blue wall opposite him (almost hidden amongst the shadows of the room) is a splatter of ink, drops of it hanging down in liquid strings, a couple of said drips spilling and splashing upon the wooden floor below...

Silver eyes widen in alarm. He opens his mouth to explain - to bellow a warning, to scramble away once again - but instead, he bites into his bottom lip.

"Just... writers block..."

"Writers block?"

"Yeah. Writers block..."

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, Grim does not have schizophrenia, or PTSD, or any other mental classifications you could try to identify him with. He has an unclassified psychosis disorder, and I'd prefer to keep it unclassified due to the nature of how the Author functions in the book I have planned for them, as it could paint any disorders I claim Grim to have in a negative and supernatural light. What Grim does have is insomnia, but that's not shown here.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my spew of creative nonsense. I may add more here if I'm struggling to write again, but idk.


End file.
